


Motley's the Only Wear

by LegendaryBard



Series: Strange Bedfellows Universe [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Salecrow, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29862303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: A very strange scarecrow and a hatter with a Cheshire grin are learning to live with one another in relative peace, after their dramatic escape three months prior.More enterprising individuals in the criminal underworld are making motions to change things, though, whether the two like it or not.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Jervis Tetch
Series: Strange Bedfellows Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195469
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Motley's the Only Wear

The Special Containment Wing of Arkham was a peculiar place, governed by rules that were strict and carefully regimented. This area was not so much an asylum, or even a prison, in the traditional sense; it was a cloister of dangerous people who simply could not be around other members of society, and whose only recourse was careful containment and permanent solitude. 

There were several specialized containment units built to house the extraordinary individuals in this wing. Doctor Phosphorus was kept in a tiny, cramped cell made of lead; Clayface was kept in a freezing cold chamber made out of plexiglass, chilled to the point he could scarcely move; Poison Ivy was kept in a relatively normal cell, except everything even remotely resembling plant matter was not permitted within thirty feet of her person; Killer Croc was kept in a deep, unscalable pit, and was occasionally thrown a pig carcass to devour. 

The cells were built as the need arose, and only if there was no other option, due to the costliness of special housing. Most of them received therapy in their controlled environments, and some of them— like Croc— willingly submitted to the medications they were fed. Croc  _ loved  _ the medications. If he saved big doses of pills up he could just drift off with a pig carcass and not even notice he was chewing off his own tongue. Therapy for Croc, though, didn’t go so well. The therapist would talk, and Croc wouldn’t listen. 

Ivy refused medication and maintained her misanthropic stance, despite the best effort of multiple therapists. She insisted there was nothing wrong with her. The fault lay with mankind itself. 

Doctor Phosphorus was left alone, for the most part. He screamed and raged whenever anyone got near, and sobbed in a ball most days and nights. He had taken to his solitude poorly, though insisted on rejecting doctors.

Clayface begged for more therapy sessions. He wanted to talk, and he did, as much as the doctors would let him. He would beg for news, for entertainment, for books to be read to him, for conversation. He would stage plays and movies he’d made up in his own head, and play every single character. 

It drew a crowd. There’d be the occasionally mildly interested watchman who would linger on their patrol, and Clayface’s plays would get more exciting, more bombastic, more outlandish in order to keep eyes on him.

Except… 

There’s a person missing from this list. Let’s see… Waylon Jones, Pamela Isley, Basil Karlo (though occasionally Ethan Bennett would rear his head; it was difficult to determine whether Bennett was an act, like Karlo’s portrayal of King Lear or the Queen of Carthage, or a genuine split personality who happened to inhabit the same body), and of course, Alexander Sartorius…

Oh, of course! Someone is missing. 

They sometimes call him the  _ Iceman,  _ part of a title of an old famous story. Do you know it? 

The full title is  _ The Iceman Cometh.  _ It’s a play by Eugene O’Neill, written back during the second world war. Clayface has probably done a reenactment. 

The iceman is an older substitute for the mailman in the classic joke about a woman’s kids resembling the mailman more than her husband. The iceman is speculated to have slept with the main character’s wife repeatedly in the story, while the main character was away. It’s a running gag.

You know the funny thing about that?

If you tried to say that  _ this  _ Iceman slept with somebody else’s wife, he’d probably kill you. 

=

DATE: DECEMBER 3RD

TIME: 10:35 AM

LOCATION: ARKHAM ASYLUM, GOTHAM CITY NEW JERSEY, UNITED STATES

**THE ICEMAN COMETH**

The corridor, down in this sector of the Special Containment Wing, was well-lit and long. The walls were a soft, brushed chrome, modern and new compared to the cracked, hundred-years old ceramic tile and flooring in most of the asylum. A fluorescent streak of lights striped the ceiling at regular intervals, not unlike yellow road paint, stretching an eye-watering distance forward. 

An Arkham guard was escorting a pair of visitors; the sleek, tall form of the Dark Knight, and his companion, the more brightly dressed Ratcatcher. 

“We didn’t see her leave her cell,” the guard was saying to them, “I swear, she was there up ‘til late last night. Security camera footage is solid, too. We reviewed it before you got here...” 

“You may have missed something,” the Caped Crusader responded, amiably. “We’re just here to be sure.” He glanced at his companion. “Ratcatcher?” 

Flannegan had his arms wrapped around himself slightly, in uncomfortable defense. “The rats don’t like it down here. This place is… not friendly to little creatures. They’re whispering about monsters and cold and darkness…” 

There was the somewhat distant sound of feet thwapping against a solid floor, then an unexpected bang; the three men in the hallway all readied their weapons, prepared for conflict that never came. 

“Batman!” A voice howled. 

“Oh, not  _ him  _ again,” the guard grumbled, rolling his eyes and stuffing his gun back in its holster. “That’s all yours, Batman.” 

“Batman!” The voice howled again, insistently, accompanied by a few repetitive thunks. “Please—” 

Ratcatcher threw the Dark Knight a bewildered look. Batman didn’t look back at him, and instead, approached the source of the voice.

The pleading came from inside a large, mostly plexiglass cell on the eastern wall, originating from its sole occupant. He was slightly above average in musculature, with long, broad shoulders and a tapering V-shaped torso. He stood a shade over six feet, with a slight paunch obscured by the grey Arkham uniform. His face was stern and serious; he had a hooked, aquiline nose, severe eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a face stricken with the lines of early middle-age. His hair was snow-white, thinning at the edges, and kept close-cropped. His eyes were a shade of blue so pale they were nearly white; most notably of all, his skin was tinged the unhealthy grey-blue of the drowned or frozen. 

He was smashed against the plexiglass of his cell, his eyes wide. His nails scrabbled against the material with no small measure of desperation; small gildings of frost were left trailing in their wake. 

“Nora,” he pleaded, throatily. “Please, how is she, I need to see her—” 

“Is that—?” Ratcatcher whispered, nudging the Dark Knight uncertainly; he was given a slight, almost imperceptible nod in confirmation. 

“Victor,” Batman said, carefully, “Your wife is fine. Nora is in excellent hands.” 

“But there’s still no  _ cure,”  _ Victor hissed, furiously. He pushed himself away from the wall, stalking back into his cell. Every footstep spawned an instant cast of ice, frozen crystals that were barbed in agitation. “You have to let me out, Batman. I can do valuable work. I can  _ cure her.”  _

“Your attempts at cures were getting people killed, Fries,” Batman said, firmly. “It’s better for the both of you that you’re in here.” 

Fries spun on heel immediately; small flechettes of ice burst from his palm, burying themselves firmly in the plexiglass wall with a soft chorus of  _ thwits _ . The Ratcatcher and the Arkham guard flinched; Batman did not. 

“Better for her? Better for  _ me!?  _ I don’t  _ think  _ so, Batman! She is an ordinary person to WayneTech, but  **_not_ ** _ to me!  _ If I had those resources, she would be visiting me now instead of  _ you!”  _

“Goodbye, Victor. Keep on good behavior.” Batman turned to go, and the doctor seemed to realize his mistake.

“Wait,” he said, hurriedly. He smashed himself against the glass again. “Wait. You’re here because Ivy escaped last night— I know where she is.” 

That got the Dark Knight to pause for a moment, at least. 

“Where is she, Victor?” 

“She didn’t escape by herself,” Fries hissed. Little swirls of frost began to expand out from his fingertips, drawing intricate patterns against the glass. “She had help. I couldn’t see from my cell, but I could hear. Quinzel helped her. Wherever the two are, they’ll be together.” 

That was unusually forthcoming for a crook. Especially one who had, just moments ago, attempted to send shards of ice into the Dark Knight’s skull in a murderous rage. “What are you expecting in exchange for telling me this, Victor?” 

“I want to see her,” Fries told him, pleadingly. 

“I can’t let you out of there. You know that.” Batman reminded him. The ice crystals on the plexiglass pane began growing sharper, more jagged. 

“Then— then, a  _ progress update!  _ The files the doctors are working with. Her medical reports. A photo! Anything!” Fries punctuated each of his demands by slamming his fist against the transparent divider separating them. “Do you have any idea how maddening it is to not have solid proof that she’s living or dead? The burden I feel for not being able to work, to  _ help?”  _

“I can see about getting those for you, Victor,” Batman said. Victor’s shoulders sagged in relief; all the permission Batman needed to begin questioning him in greater detail. “You’re  _ certain _ it was Quinzel who helped her? The M.O. isn’t like Harley at all. She’d usually leave a trail of battered bodies in her wake, not silent security cameras.” 

Fries’s lip curled. “Her voice is unmistakable, Batman, you know that. Late last night I woke up to them talking…” 

“What were they talking about?”

Fries gave a dismissive huff. “It didn’t involve me. Once I realized it was nothing, I went back to sleep.”

“Anything you remember will be helpful,” Batman coaxed. Fries’s pale eyes narrowed; he understood the implication. The more ably he assisted, the more information he would get on Nora. He divulged, openly:

“It isn’t the first time they’ve rendezvoused down here. She and Isley have been meeting surreptitiously in the night for some time.” 

Ratcatcher took the initiative— his head cocked, curiously, though his expression was hidden underneath tinted goggles and a respirator. “How long ago?” He asked. 

“Months,” Fries said, vaguely. “One loses his sense of time down here, but… I’m sure it’s been a few months. Maybe half a year, by now.” 

“Months?” Ratcatcher asked, surprised. “That means…” 

His face tilted, ever so slightly, to glance in the Dark Knight’s direction. The implication of Fries’s words went without saying: if the “half a year” was true, Quinzel and Isley had been meeting before the death of the Joker, and well before her escape from Arkham in early November… so she must have found a way to not only enter into the Restricted Wing, but do so while she was still imprisoned. 

“You didn’t see fit to mention that to any of the guards?” Batman asked.

“Of course not. There’s a code of honor among the criminal underworld. What do I get out of telling the guards something? More slop to eat? A room that’s a few degrees cooler?” Fries seemed to seesaw between manic and dejected in mere moments. “I can’t have Nora, but  _ they _ can have one another. I can do that, at least.” 

Batman opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by his companion. Ratcatcher abruptly went ramrod straight, then hurriedly bent at the knee. A rat went bounding up to him from further down the corridor, and Flannegan lovingly swooped upon it, plucking it up from the ground and rocking it in his arms like a human baby. Softly, he cooed, “What is it, little one?” 

There was a moment of silence, where Flannegan raptly listened to what sounded like nothing at all. Fries raised his frosty brows in an expression of incredulity, eyeing Batman— the Dark Knight elected to ignore his inquisitive stare.

“The rattie says there’s a strong concentration of a relatively young human female’s scent in Isley’s isolation chamber,” Flannegan reported, dutifully. “Not Isley’s, of course. If you had something with Quinzel’s scent, I could be sure it’s her…” 

“We don’t have anything fresh enough to be useful to your rats,” Batman said. “Quinzel’s been out of Arkham for almost a month now, and no one’s seen her since. But we can still use the two pieces of evidence- Fries’s testimony and the presence of the scent- to corroborate one another.” 

Fries, who had been wholly focused on Batman ever since his arrival, seemed to see Ratcatcher for the first time. 

“...Who is this, Batman? A new hero…? Usually you work alone, or with a Robin.” 

“He’s a contract hire,” Batman obliged, feeling under no obligation to give any more to Fries than the basic understanding of their working relationship. 

“I’m called the Ratcatcher,” Flannegan helpfully supplied. “I can talk to—” 

“That’s enough,” Batman cut him off, and Otis clammed up immediately. (That was one thing Batman could credit him for— he took orders far better than some of Batman’s previous help.) 

The Dark Knight normally wouldn’t let Otis give away any information to villains they battled, but he felt even more compelled to silence the Ratcatcher in this case. There was something about the way Fries was now intently looking at Otis… the desperation and dejection had finally smoothed into the cold, calculating look Batman recognized from Mr. Freeze. There was a scheme unfolding in his frosty heart… and Freeze’s schemes were not to be underestimated. 

“If that’s all, Victor…” Batman glanced over at the Arkham guard, who had been dutifully standing at attention through Fries’s questioning. “We’ll be heading to Isley’s quarantine unit.” 

“Sir,” the guard nodded, and they began walking back down the hallway. 

“Remember your promise!” Fries howled at their backs, pounding insistently against his plexiglass window. Batman made a mental note to seek information on Nora’s treatment when the on-site investigation here wrapped up; since she was currently in the care of WayneTech, he could seek information on her in either persona— Bruce Wayne or the Batman. 

Not far from Victor Fries’s cold room was Pamela Isley’s isolation chamber. Her cell was a relatively large circular space with transparent windows; not so much as a single plant particulate was permitted to exist within several yards of the walls. All of the doctor’s bedding was synthetic or animal-derived; all the furniture was made of plastic or metal (usually the former, and bolted to the floor). There was a singular ventilation shaft, set high in the ceiling fifteen feet above, that was too small for a normal adult human body to squeeze into— and it was as rigorously guarded as the security leading into this room. 

The heavy hydraulic doors (there was a small, two-doored airlock-style chamber between her cell and the outdoors) between Isley’s cell and the Containment Wing’s corridor were open now for ease of access, but ordinarily they were locked under severe guard. Batman was well-aware of the security measures in most Special Containment cells in Arkham: a guard’s ID was required to be scanned, then their thumb placed upon a malleable pad for a fingerprint check and a pulse reading; the latter of these had been instituted after the mutilation of a few guards during escape attempts. The second door required a second guard’s ID card insertion and a retina scan. 

There was already a team of investigators working inside; besides the expected assortment of Arkham staff and police, several attentive-looking rats stood by, their noses twitching and whiskers flicking as they took in the scents surrounding them. Some of them were Flannegan’s, deployed when they had first arrived in this area of the Special Containment Wing; others were denizens of the Asylum.

“Hey, Bats,” a voice hailed them. Batman recognized Lieutenant Briggs on sight; veterans on the Arkham Guard staff were hard to come by, and easy to recall. “Nothing really new to report since we called you this morning. Or, ‘least, nothing good. It’s getting kind of clear that whatever went down, it’s a serious breach. All four cameras in here were looping footage, and we have no idea how anybody got in or out. The doors log everyone passing through them, and they’re completely blank other than the routine patrols last night. We tried asking Fries, since he’s so close and all, but he says he didn’t see anyone coming through other than the usual rounds.” 

Ratcatcher, without being asked, began consulting with his rats. He knelt next to them and murmured to them in a low, inquisitive tone; Batman occasionally caught some soft squeaks from the rodents. 

“We’ll need a look in the vents,” Batman said, decisively. “Give me a copy of your security footage, a list of who was on staff that night, and the door logs.”

“Already ready for you, Bats. The police asked for the same stuff.” Briggs freely handed over a few papers tucked under his arm and a flash drive. 

The first order of business would be constructing a chronological picture of what, exactly, happened last night. Batman tapped his ear. 

“Red Robin, I’m going to upload to you a few hours of security footage. There’s audio as well as video— see if you can find a splice that tells you when the looping footage began being played.”

There was a pause, then a buzz of Tim Drake’s drawl.  _ “Nothing I love better than trawling through boring security camera footage for hours. Can’t we find some way to automate this?”  _

Batman elected to ignore his commentary. It wasn’t likely that they would find a clear video splice, but maybe one for audio… If Drake  _ did  _ find an audio splice, it would mean their crooks were a little amateurish, or else lacking time— it was unlikely such a helpful clue would be discovered, since the criminals involved had gone through all the effort of looping the footage, but even professionals got complacent. If Harley was the culprit, she may not even pay attention to minutiae like that...

Though Batman was getting the strong feeling, surveying this scene, that it was much, much more than just Harley. His intuition told him that she had to have been working with  _ someone.  _ All the present Arkham escapees came flooding to mind: first and foremost, Jervis Tetch and Jonathan Crane, who were still at large after wounding Nightwing close to three months ago… but they didn’t exactly fit the picture of this case. 

Everyone Batman could think of who fit this M.O. either didn’t have incentive, or were still incarcerated in Arkham. He would be tempted to say this was a mutual breakout attempt, except as of the headcount that morning, Pamela Isley was the only one who was missing. 

Troubled, Batman stepped inside Isley’s isolation chamber. He took a careful, considerate look at the empty open floors and sparse furniture; there were little to no personal effects. The lieutenant followed him in. “Briggs. I read the reports— guards sweep this section of the Special Containment Wing every thirty minutes on patrol. Isley’s disappearance was only noted at the ten o’ clock patrol this morning, but the report implied she must’ve been gone longer.” 

Briggs nodded, giving a slight shrug. “Well, see… That’s because we just don’t know. Buford and Valdez were in charge of this area from four to ten last night, but we haven’t been able to get in contact with them, so we don’t know if she was there in that time... The shift team before them, though, Ramirez and Goodman, can verify that Isley was there when Buford and Valdez took over.”

“Whose shift is scheduled now?” Batman asked. 

Briggs checked his notes. “Uhh, Ramrod and Ivan; Ivan noticed she was missing at 10:05…”

“That quickly? Most guards would still be clocking in by then.” Batman gingerly moved a woolen blanket, going over the sheets with a keen eye. There were a few strands of red hair… Isley’s. Nothing unexpected. 

“Not all my guards are lazy good-for-nothings,” Briggs said, a little wounded. Batman ignored that remark. 

“I’ll need Ivan’s file. And the personal addresses of Buford and Valdez— if you say you can’t get a hold of them, we’ll need to go to them. If we can’t find them, we might very well consider this an escape  _ and _ a kidnapping.” The “ _ or worse”  _ was left unsaid. 

“Sure, sure,” Briggs glanced back at one of his colleagues. “Got that?”

“Yeah, Lieutenant. I’ll be right back.” 

There was a small strand of hair twisted in the sheets. Blonde, long, just a single strand… Batman had a good guess whose. He retrieved a pair of tweezers from his belt and a sample tube.

“Briggs, the two who were on shift before Buford and Valdez— Ramirez and Goodman… are they available for questioning?”

“Yeah, but we got some statements from them already.”

“I’d like to talk to them personally—” 

Ratcatcher abruptly stood up, in a swirl of dark green coattails— he made to hurry in Batman’s direction, but had to stop short to not run into a technician scanning the scene. He shuffled as quickly as he could through a thicket of police and Arkham staff, stopping in front of the Dark Knight and bouncing on his heels. 

“We need to get into those vents,” Ratcatcher exclaimed. “They said… the ratties from Arkham, they’re describing…” 

“A ladder, Briggs,” Batman ordered. Briggs nodded, dutifully, and rushed off down the hall. Batman turned to his assistant for the day. “What  _ did  _ the rats say, Flannegan?” 

Otis shifted, uneasily. “They weren’t sure what it was, that’s the thing… Their little minds are so simple, you know, they don’t— they just— they don’t use words to describe things like you or me, so explaining it to non-rats gets confusing…” 

“Otis,” Batman said, gently. Otis seemed to get a hold of himself. 

“They were describing some kind of creature… a rat-sized creature… that was moving around here last night, in the vents and on the ground— Except it wasn’t alive. It didn’t have an animal scent, no lingering pheromones… but it was still moving.”

“Some kind of machine?” Batman probed. 

“I guess,” Otis said, unsure. “It smelled like…” He rubbed his temples. “These feelings… the things they know and how they think doesn’t  _ mean  _ anything to you… Sorry, this is hard to explain…” 

“That’s alright, Otis. We’ll need to ask the staff if anyone’s seen a machine moving around… they may have written it off as a trick of the light, or a rat…” 

Briggs had returned, bearing a large ladder. Huffing and puffing, he set it down beneath the vent grate. 

“Hope you’ve got a bat-screwdriver in that utility belt,” the Lieutenant puffed. “Those vents are seriously heavy-duty.” 

“I have it covered, Lieutenant,” Batman replied. He ascended the ladder, reaching out to the grate— with the brief application of a small drill (a sort of bat-screwdriver, the Dark Knight supposed) to the vent’s heavy screws, he pulled the grate free. Carefully, bearing a flashlight, he lifted his head to peer into the vent system. Flannegan, who was thoughtfully but unnecessarily holding the ladder steady, called up to him: 

“What do you see, Batman?”

For a start, Quinn couldn’t fit in the ventilation shaft, that was for certain— no human, barring a very small child, would have a chance at squeezing through here without getting stuck. It would be an easy fit for a rat, maybe… or a small machine of comparable size… but definitely not an adult woman.

Which meant Fries’s story wasn’t matching up. The vents would be the only potential way for Harley to travel from her area of the prison to this one. But that conclusion also conflicted with what they knew: the scent of Harley, as per the rats, and the hair… that was impossible to discount.

Keeping that in mind, he continued his investigation of the ventilation shaft. The metal walls and floor were relatively clean and dustless… small scratches and holes had been worn into the bottom, likely by enterprising rat feet.

Hm… there was a small, square-shaped spot, close to the grate, with fewer claw-worn grooves. 

Had something been in this vent? And for a good while, judging by the lack of marks. 

_ Half a year?  _

Their communication didn’t necessarily have to be face to face for Fries’s testimony to be correct… Which meant that the hair, and the human female scent… 

Batman levelly spoke: “Ratcatcher, was Harley’s scent  _ only  _ in this room?” 

Ratcatcher hunched in on himself, a little bashfully. “Er… I asked, and maybe I should have told you this first, but no, it wasn’t. The rats traced it all the way back to the front entrance—”

No. Maybe…

“Lieutenant Briggs… Buford and Valdez, the two missing guards. Are either of them female?” 

“Um, Valdez is…” Briggs called up to him, his brow crinkling in worry. 

“Is she blond?” Batman asked. 

“Y… Yeah, I think so?”

“Ratcatcher… that scent your rats have been following may not be Harley’s scent after all. Is there another? A male, following it?” 

Ratcatcher stared intently at one of his rats for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Ah, yes… there is…”

The events of what happened here and the identities of the parties involved were beginning to get clearer, but the fate of the two missing Arkham Guards was potentially getting worse by the moment. “Have you been able to determine where Ivy went?” 

Otis briefly let go of the ladder to wring his hands. “Well, I… the rats are having difficulty picking out her scent, Batman, because she’s… well… her smell confuses them. It’s like asking someone to keep track of a single blade on a pinwheel while it’s spinning, you see? Too fast with too many contrasting colors. She smells like nectar and flowers one moment, plant pheromones and fruit, constantly shifting her scent— then there’s flashes of human female… It’s too difficult for them to realize it’s a single trail to follow.” 

Batman mulled on that. Though they had sorted out the fact that Harley had never physically been in this room, there were a lot of uncertain pieces to this puzzle… and too many gaps that still needed filling in before he could reach a satisfying answer as to what had happened here. 

For a start, the identity of the machine that had been skulking around, who it belonged to, and its purpose in being there to begin with. 

How whoever was responsible for this break-in had been able to loop the cameras without being detected. 

The missing guards, and their whereabouts. 

Harley’s alleged role in all this… 

How Ivy had seemingly disappeared without so much a hint of an alarm being raised.

Then, perhaps most critically: how many people had participated in this breakout, how long it had been planned for, and why Ivy and  _ only  _ Ivy? If possible to breach the Special Containment Wing so thoroughly, why not Fries, Clayface, Croc? Why just her?

Batman ducked his head out of the ventilation shaft, chewing on all that he knew. He turned over the grate in his hands, intending on fastening it back where it belonged, but paused. There were little tiny scratches in the metal, scraped against the slots where the screws should go… like someone had been trying to blindly unfasten the screws from  _ inside  _ the vent. Similar scratches made themselves evident against the screw-heads. 

A very perplexing locked-room mystery indeed. 

=

Crane awoke with a start, blinking its eyes and sitting up in a state of alertness. The wooden floorboards on the barn floor squeaked, under a light trod that it recognized. Slowly, it reclined back onto the bedding it lay upon.

“Te-etch,” it groaned, quietly. 

“Yes, yes, dear, I’m home,” the diminutive blond trilled, cheerfully. “And I have your favorite!” 

It was not an easy existence for them, now, but it could be worse.

And, although neither scarecrow nor hatter knew it then, it would. 

**Author's Note:**

> After two years in development... 
> 
> Motley's the Only Wear!
> 
> Comments appreciated. Hopefully I can deliver on what made Strange Bedfellows so good, eh?


End file.
